


Think

by SolarPoweredFlashlight



Category: Heaven Will Be Mine (Visual Novel)
Genre: Consensual Kink, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-23 15:05:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15608925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolarPoweredFlashlight/pseuds/SolarPoweredFlashlight
Summary: Luna-Terra has spent a long time cultivating the habit of never stopping to think, and Saturn happens to be all too willing to help her achieve this goal.





	Think

“I’ve been thinking about you,” Saturn says, impulsively, angrily, hungrily, earnestly.

String of Pearls is somewhere nearby. Luna-Terra can read it in Mare Crisium’s input sensors, can feel it in the way she shifts differently. The prototype’s strange gravity changes the vibration of her old beast’s engines against Luna-Terra’s callused palms just ever so slightly.

“You say that like it’s my fault,” Luna-Terra retorts coolly, beads of sweat gathering and pooling between her shoulder blades as she flicks switches, twists dials. Like breathing, the muscle memory of each tiny adjustment, each analog translation from her mind to her body to her Ship-Self’s body and her mind.

But no – they’ve always been very clear they’re not supposed to think of the Ship-Selves as having their own thoughts, their own instincts.

She turns the ever-bleeding warhorse of a robot just so, searching, hunting. The others, perhaps, they use their Ship-Selves to see, to feel, to sense. Luna-Terra doesn’t have that luxury. Does she want it? Hard to say. She’s never known anything else but the struggle to translate her true intentions from one body into another, never known it to be effortless, and she has adapted. Some might say – some  _have_ said – that this struggle has shaped her, defined her.

Maybe one day she’ll replace Mare Crisium with a Ship-Self that doesn’t take so much work to make hers. But then, would it really be hers if she hadn’t put all that time and love and pain into understanding how to make it be what she needed it to be, do what she needed it to do?

“It _is_  your fault,” Saturn chuffs, and shows her hand. So damn cocky. Is she trying to be found? Maybe. Ah – but she cheats, that damn Celestial Mechanic. The String of Pearls reveals herself momentarily to the sharpest of eyes, the cleverest of observers, and then recalculates all of existence, fudges the numbers, and she’s gone again with a wink before Luna-Terra can get a shot off. She’s gotten better. Or maybe she was always this good, and she’s just come to terms with the necessity of cheating to get what she wants.

“I don’t control what you think,” Luna-Terra says, and the sweat gathering between her shoulders comes together, rolls down her spine in one slick bead like a greedy thumb down her back.

“I felt that,” Saturn whispers over the comms.

“Get out of my head,” Luna-Terra growls, stilling in her cockpit, straining as if to hear with her human senses. But she can – she isn’t listening  _through_  the Mare Crisium, she’s listening  _to_  her. The body itself creaks and groans, responding to the tides of that slippery little asshole and her slippery little ship.

“I’m not in your head,” Saturn says, “I’m just listening in on the narrative – and the narrative says you want the same thing I want, I think.”

“And what is it you think?” Luna-Terra asks, a little smirk forming on her face. If she can keep Saturn talking – no, don’t think about it, don’t give her the opportunity to read between the lines. Don’t think, just  _do._

There she is.

Behind Luna-Terra.

Sneaking up. Snaking up.

The poisoned tip of a monstrous claw following the path of a bead of sweat in reverse, up the back of the Mare Crisium. Luna-Terra shudders, but waits. She knows better. She knows the second move is always more advantageous than the first. When the time comes her body, old though it is, retrofitted and fixed and made to fit if not  _made to fit_ , her body will know what to do.

“I keep getting sidetracked by this little thought,” Saturn says, and she doesn’t purr like Pluto does, but Luna-Terra can hear the grin in her voice, the violence, the rage, the trust, the threat, the promise. Sweat along her back, goosebumps along her arm. “Do you wanna hear it?”

When did Saturn get so damn cocky?

Time to teach her a lesson.

Before she has time to think, Luna-Terra is throwing herself forward, body within body, muscle memory flying loose and easy, natural as breathing, translating intent to kinetics to intent to kinetics, and Mare Crisium whips around, a steel greyhound bristling with edges honed sharp by humanity’s cruelties. Her spear hooks String of Pearl’s feet, flips them out from under her, and in a daring move her gravity flares – a burst of urgent assertion. Saturn goes down, but as she does she’s laughing.

“Hit a nerve, did I?” Saturn smirks, looking up at her from the ground as if she’s won the fight, as if she still has the upper hand.

“When did you lose your fear of me, I wonder?” Luna-Terra muses, striding to where String of Pearls lies crushed among the dust of Ares’ haggard surface. She crouches, looming over Saturn’s Ship-Self, and draws her blade. Saturn needs to be afraid. If she’s not afraid of Luna-Terra, then she’s not afraid of the Memorial Foundation. And if she’s not afraid of the Memorial Foundation, she’s not afraid of Earth – and she really, really should be.

“I would say it was the first time I saw you helpless underneath of me,” Saturn quips, and in that moment Luna-Terra realizes the String of Pearls’ tail is coiled tight around the Mare Crisium’s ankle. Too late. “And I realized you  _wanted_  to be there.” The tail yanks, and Mare Crisium’s feet are pulled out from under her body. She falls, breath catching, and the shock of the landing knocks the air right out of her.

The dust clouds up, her Ship-Self groans, her human body groans, and the String of Pearls insinuates itself against them both, thighs to thighs, palms to palms, stomach to stomach.

“And now we’re back here again,” Saturn says, gloating.

“So we are,” Luna-Terra says, a coil of something winding tight in her chest. Say nothing, give nothing away.

“You know what I keep thinking about?” Saturn says, as if she doesn’t have Luna-Terra pinned, as if they’re having this conversation casually and not through desperate, tense combat. “It’s really been pissing Mercury off how I keep trailing off and being distracted, it’s actually kind of funny.” String of Pearls’ face comes in close to Mare Crisium’s neck, and Luna-Terra can feel the thrum of her enemy’s Tidal Reactor through their touching Ship-Selves. “You, beneath me again,” Saturn says, her words ichor and wine, dripping poison that numbs and softens.

“I could throw you off of me anytime I want,” Luna-Terra says, attempting to sound unconcerned. Her reward is a loud guffaw, triumphant and childish, through the comms.

“So you admit you don’t want this to stop.”

“That isn’t what I said.”

“So say it.”

“That I don’t want this to stop?”

“If it’s true.”

Silence. Truth. Truth, hanging thick in Luna-Terra’s throat. She loves this. She loves the freedom of failure, loves the liberation of giving someone else total control. She hates having to be the one to make decisions.

Saturn laughs at her through the narrative, if not through the comms.

“Maybe just for a little while,” Luna-Terra says, and as the words leave her lips tension begins to leave her body.

“I’m not like Pluto,” Saturn says, easing their Ship-Selves more closely together, an embrace instead of a grapple. “I don’t think I can just know what you think, know what you want, know what’s best for you. There’s some stuff I can guess. You don’t make it hard to guess.” Luna-Terra feels her cheeks get hot, says nothing. “I’m not in your head, and we don’t have years of history. So I’m gonna need to trust you, LT.”

“You can trust me,” she says, and feels the sweet surrender in uttering those words.

“Can I trust you to speak up for yourself?” String of Pearls eases Mare Crisium to its side, encases it in a gentle hold heedless of the ever-seeping blood of its open wound. “Can I trust you to tell me no when you need to?”

It’s strange, to have it asked of her so plainly, but nice. Yes, it’s nice to not have someone just assume they’ll be able to read her like an open book.

“If you need me to,” Luna-Terra says, relieved to have been given a directive, “then I will.”

“I do need you to,” Saturn says, and Luna-Terra can read in her Ship-Self’s sensors that Saturn has opened her cockpit, “Because if I’m going to tie you down and sit on your face, I need to know you want it just as much as I do.”

“Fuck,” Luna-Terra exhales.

“What’s that?” Saturn croons, mocking. “Use your words, miss big tough ace pilot.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to tell me whether you like the sound of that, for one.”

“Yes,”

“Yes?”

A pause.

“Yes please.”

“Good girl,” Saturn laughs into Luna-Terra’s ear across the comms, and it’s a pure hit of pleasure, dopamine delivered direct to her brain. “My cockpit is open. You should come say hi, hotshot.”

“You want me to come to you?” To leave Mare Crisium, to enter String of Pearls. She thought it would be like before, when Saturn slipped past her defenses and inside her Ship-Self, inside her thoughts, inside her desires. This wasn’t what she was imagining – if she makes that journey across the chasm between their Ship-Selves, there’ll be no denying her desire, no pretending she was the passive recipient and not an active participant in this treasonous foreplay.

“Do you trust me?” Saturn asks. No. Yes. Maybe. Definitely. Definitely not.

“I want to.”

“Then come try it. Just for a little while.”

Luna-Terra thinks, just for a moment, before she remembers how much she hates doing that – stopping to think. Things never work out right when she stops to think. It’s a human tic she’s long discarded, and so she discards her uncertainty and opens the hatch.

There isn’t far to traverse, wrapped up in String of Pearls’ embrace like she is, but her heart is thundering like she’s run a lightyear marathon by the time she reaches Saturn’s waiting, open chassis.

It feels disrespectful to keep comparing her to Pluto, but they’re both such a big part of her life – both such fucking insistent  _tops_  sometimes – that she can’t help it. Pluto, Luna-Terra imagines, would be smiling benevolently, praising her softly for making this leap of faith.

Saturn is smirking, that damn smug idiot. It makes Luna-Terra melt all the same.

“Come here,” Saturn growls through her smirk, taking Luna-Terra by the lapels and kissing her, hard and hungry. Luna-Terra yields, softening and compliant, each shuddering exhale freeing her of the burden of thought, of decision-making, of responsibility.  _Mine, mine, mine_ , sing Saturn’s kisses, Saturn’s teeth, Saturn’s greedy fingers. Luna-Terra allows herself to be pulled into the cockpit of the String of Pearls.

 _Yours_ , her body whispers, with a trembling release.  _Just for a little while. Just for a little while._


End file.
